Oh, how very clever you are, Constable Spofford!
Bryce watched his monitors with amusement as the police officer strutted self-importantly around the little flat, checking the windows and the front door, then shaking his head. He could find nothing wrong, he told Red.
Of course you won’t!
‘Is there any possible way Bryce could have a key?’ Spofford asked her.
Good thinking, Batman! But I don’t need keys. You probably don’t understand that in my sapper training in the TA, picking locks was a major part. I also had a cell buddy in the US who was a master lock-picker. There isn’t any lock on any door on Planet Earth I can’t open within thirty seconds. Harry Houdini would have had nothing on me. But I’m not going to share that little nugget with you, am I?
So do what you have to do. Fill your boots. Look important to Red. Maybe you’re hoping to get a shag out of her? Well, good luck, mate. She’s like one of those female black widow spiders. You shag her then she eats you. You end up as a turd on her doorstep.
But that’s all you ever were, Constable Spofford, isn’t it? A mass of dumb protein, consumed, digested and excreted the following day.
I’ll see you in Hell one day. Until then, have a good time on earth, my friend. Go on looking important, giving Red confidence.
But don’t imagine for one moment you are going to save her life.
45
Monday, 28 October
Cleo was on the sofa in the living area, in a baggy top, bra strap down over her shoulder, breastfeeding Noah, when Roy Grace entered shortly after 7 p.m. An old episode of Miss Marple was playing on the television screen and she immediately muted it as she smiled a greeting. Humphrey raced across to him, tail wagging madly, and jumped up. He gave the dog a distracted hug, and Cleo frowned as she saw the expression on his face.
‘How was your day, darling?’ she asked dubiously.
‘Down, boy,’ he said. Then walked across, kissed her on the cheek, and gave Noah a light peck on his chubby arm. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘Daddy’s home, Noah! Look!’ she squealed in her ‘baby’ voice, looking down fondly at her son. Then she looked up worriedly at Roy. ‘What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve calmed down. I don’t think it would be good for Noah to hear me swearing.’
He went through into the kitchen and mixed himself a larger than usual vodka martini, then downed it in one continuous gulp. He made himself another, went up to the first floor and out onto the terrace, and lit a cigarette.
Cassian sodding Pewe. The biggest shit he’d ever encountered in all his twenty years’ service in the police force. Pewe made ACC Peter Rigg’s predecessor, the acidic Alison Vosper, seem a saint in comparison. What the hell was going on? A year ago, Cassian Pewe, after failing to screw him, had left Sussex CID in semi-disgrace and limped back to his old role in London’s Metropolitan Police. Now this shit was to be his new boss?
Cassian assures me he has nothing personal against you.
Tom Martinson’s words echoed unconvincingly in his head. This was the worst news. The worst possible news ever. He could not remember ever feeling this down. He sat on a wicker chair, staring gloomily all around him. Feeling totally walled in.
Transfer out of Major Crime? Out of the job he loved so much? Hell no. He had never been a quitter and he wasn’t going to start now. He’d find a way through this. He had to. With the recent merger of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Teams, his position was already dangerously weakened, as there was currently a surplus of homicide detectives across the two counties. In a sudden flash of paranoia he wondered if bringing Pewe in was a subtle way of getting rid of him. Was the Chief Constable playing games?
He thought back over the past year or so. He’d had some good results, surely? Okay, one killer had escaped, possibly, or drowned in Shoreham Harbour. Glenn Branson had been shot and another officer badly injured in a previous case. Did his face suddenly not fit any more? The only way to shore up his future here was to shine, make sure he was on the Police and Crime Commissioner’s radar. Make himself indispensable.
But he needed something massively high profile to get his teeth into for that to happen.
He didn’t know it yet, but he was about to get that opportunity.
46
Monday, 28 October
The booze was helping his mood. Cleo had long put Noah into his cot, and was now upstairs herself. Grace sat on the sofa, eating a microwaved Marks and Spencer vegetarian ravioli and watching the news on television. Sod you, Cassian Pewe. Mess with me again and I’ll finish your career, by God I will.
There was a news item about police force cuts. The Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, was being interviewed and was on the defensive. Nothing would affect the frontline policing of the county, he assured his interrogator.
Grace admired his strong performance. It was, and always would be, impossible to win the fight against crime. There were always going to be villains out there, from every stratum of society, hurting people, destroying lives, and all too often taking lives. Making the public feel safe was a major role for the police. Reassurance, such as Martinson’s right now, went a long way.
His work phone rang. Although he was getting married on Saturday, because of two other colleagues being away and one off sick, he was having to do a second consecutive week as the on-call Senior Investigating Officer. He could of course delegate, and that was going through his mind now as he answered.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’
It was Inspector Andy Kille, the duty Ops-1 Controller in the Haywards Heath Control Room.
‘Roy, uniform at John Street, Brighton, are extremely concerned about an individual, Ms Red Westwood. She’s currently in a safe house following domestic abuse by her boyfriend. But it would seem the boyfriend has gained access. Uniform attended and PC Spofford would like a word with you. Can I patch him through?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Roy Grace said, thinking, Shit. He should not have had a drink while on call. But he had a Plan B.
There was a crackle of static, then he heard a voice. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’
‘Yes, tell me.’
Grace listened to a litany of the constable’s concerns. Red Westwood’s history of domestic abuse with her magician lover, Bryce Laurent – and his phoney background. The burnt body of Dr Karl Murphy. The fire that destroyed Cuba Libre restaurant. The fire in the engine compartment of Red Westwood’s Volkswagen. The fire in the convenience store. The engagement ring that was suddenly and mysteriously back on Red Westwood’s finger. The appearance of the queen of hearts on the bathroom mirror. The certainty that this dangerous man had gained access to her secure apartment.
‘I’m not happy with what I’m hearing,’ he said when Spofford had finished. ‘I knew about the doctor’s death, but I wasn’t aware of the connection to the other incidents. Can you have someone stay with Ms Westwood? I’m sending someone from the Major Crime Team over to you right away.’
‘I’ll stay here myself, sir,’ Spofford said.
Grace ended the call and immediately dialled Glenn Branson and gave him the details. ‘Are you able to attend, matey?’
‘Give me half an hour. I’ll see if I can get Ari’s sister to come over and babysit.’
‘You’re a good man.’
‘Yeah, I know. You sound pissed.’
‘I am pissed.’
‘Drinking when you’re on call?’
‘If I go out, I’ll arrange a driver. But for now I need a drink and I’ll tell you why tomorrow.’
‘Is everything okay?’ Glenn asked, genuinely concerned.
‘No, it’s shit.’
‘Noah and Cleo – they okay?’
‘They’re fine. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all tomorrow.’
47
Monday, 28 October
Red sat on the sofa, holding a glass of wine and sipping slowly, aware she needed to keep sober and alert, and trying to watch the Ten O’Clock News on
television as a distraction. The engagement ring now sat on the coffee table in front of her, and she was tugging at the bracelet, trying to remove that too. Having lost so much weight, it was so loose on her wrist she could almost – but not quite – get it over her hand. She would definitely go to a jeweller in the morning, she decided, to get the damned thing cut off.
Out in the hallway a locksmith, summoned by PC Spofford, was working on replacing the two deadlocks on the front door. She could hear the constable, who was also out in the hall, on his phone, talking to the skipper in the Anti-Victimization Unit, briefing him on his concerns.
After a few minutes the locksmith, a cheery man in heavy-duty blue overalls whose day job was maintaining the locks at Lewes Prison, came into the room and handed Red two sets of shiny new keys. She knew she would be moving soon, but no date had been fixed and she needed to feel safe in the flat. Safe from Bryce.
‘All done!’ he said. ‘I’ve also replaced the safety chain with a heavier one, and I’ve added an extra lock that you can secure when you are in here. I’ll be back tomorrow at Constable Spofford’s request to turn your spare bedroom into a safe room – a panic room. It will have a reinforced door and walls, and a dedicated mobile phone that goes straight through to the police. PC Spofford’s mobile will be on speed dial. The room will keep you safe for an hour, minimum, against any attempt to penetrate it – more than enough time for the police to reach you. Here’s my card if you need me in the meantime.’ The name on it was Jack Tunks.
‘Thanks so much, Jack,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to worry, Ms Westwood. I’ve been round all your windows and tomorrow I’m going to upgrade the locks on them, too. Not even Houdini would be able to get in,’ he assured her, totally unaware of Bryce Laurent watching and listening to every word from across the alley.
Houdini was an old fraud, Bryce said silently. Of course he would not have got in. Be happy in those thoughts!
Despite the presence of the locksmith and the police officer, Red jumped in shock when she heard the shrill beep of the entryphone buzzer. Spofford accompanied her along the hallway. On the screen, she could see out in the street below a tall black man, dressed in a bomber jacket and jeans, his head as bald and shiny as a bowling ball.
She pressed the speaker button. ‘Hello?’
‘Detective Inspector Branson, from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ he said.
‘Come on up,’ she said, her voice tight with anxiety. ‘The second floor. Thank you so much for coming.’
Bryce Laurent smiled. It was all escalating nicely, all going according to plan.
Oh, Red, how different this could have been! If you hadn’t listened to your parents, but had just followed your heart. We could be in bed right now, making tender love, with our whole lives ahead of us. Instead, you and I, we’re both history. How tragic is that?
‘DI Branson?’ Red asked, opening the door to the tall, cheery-looking man-mountain.
‘Yep, same name as Richard, but without a billion quid in the bank!’ he replied with a smile.
Five minutes later, he was seated opposite her in the living room, sipping from his mug of coffee and making detailed notes on his pad. Constable Spofford, confident she was in good hands, left.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘As far back as you like.’
She liked the detective instantly. He had a warmth about him, and a nice energy. And at the same time, he had an aura of sadness and vulnerability, as if he had suffered a personal tragedy. She told him the history of how she and Bryce had met, then over the next hour relayed everything that had happened, from her mother first discovering, through the detective, that the entire past history Bryce had given her was false, to the events of the past week.
Branson asked her if she still had the original email correspondence with Bryce from when they had first begun dating. She opened her laptop and showed him the wording of her advertisement on the online dating site.
Single girl, 29, redhead and smouldering, love life that’s crashed and burned. Seeks new flame to rekindle her fire. Fun, friendship and – who knows – maybe more?
He wrote it down, then looked pensive. ‘I understand you think a number of fires in the past week might be linked?’
‘Yes. To this advert – to my ex. It just seems too coincidental. Each of these fires has some kind of link to me.’
‘From what I’m told, Bryce Laurent sounds like he’s pretty sick.’
We’re dealing with someone pretty sick, are we, Detective Inspector? Well, let’s find out how right – and bright – you are! You ain’t seen nothing yet, I promise you.
48
Tuesday, 29 October
Matt Wainwright had just been promoted to Crew Commander of the Blue Watch, and this was his first shift in his new role; he had decided to arrive early to make a good impression. Although the shift change was not until 8.30 a.m., at 7.30, as he headed through driving rain along the dark streets towards Worthing fire station, his thoughts were focused on the management of his team during the day ahead.
He was also thinking about a new card trick that he had almost perfected, and how, if it was quiet, he would try it on some of the lads today. He was far too preoccupied to notice the small white van that kept a steady two hundred yards behind him in the breaking daylight.
He turned left, drove along the side of Worthing fire station, and pulled up in an empty bay at the rear. Several of the garage doors were raised and two of the fire engines were out in the car park being cleaned by his night-shift colleagues as their last duty before heading home.
He took a final drag on his cigarette, then tossed it out of the window onto the tarmac. It rolled along, throwing a shower of sparks, before being extinguished by the rain.
One of the biggest excitements about his work was never knowing what was going to happen in five minutes’ time. The siren might sound in the station at any moment. When it did, the officers required would be out of the common room, down the pole, into their uniforms and racing out on blues and twos within the target time of ninety seconds.
In fifteen years he’d not met a firefighter who did not passionately love the adrenaline rush from riding in one of these massive red beasts. And no amount of money on earth could replicate the thrill of helming an eighteen-ton fire engine through a city’s streets, together with the heightened sense of danger that so often went with it, not knowing what you would be facing at the other end.
He wondered what today might bring. The majority of firefighters, like himself, found domestic house fires, where all kinds of different aspects of your training came into play, the most challenging and the most satisfying. Some preferred cutting people out of car wrecks. Others the theatre of massive industrial building fires, with dozens of crews from around the county attending. But for all of them, the most satisfaction came from rescuing people and saving lives.
And there was one thing a number of firefighters had in common: although the Fire and Rescue Service was their day job, and the fulcrum around which their lives revolved, many of them, like himself, had second careers. He hoped that, at some point, he could make enough money out of his magic to do it full-time. It was certainly heading that way, from the rise in the number of bookings. And with two small children at home, his wife, Sue, would be a lot happier if he no longer had to work the dangerous, anti-social – and often extended – hours that went with this job.
Bryce Laurent, standing in the shadows in the pelting rain, watched Matt Wainwright until he had gone inside. Then he turned his focus back to the cigarette butt on the ground. After some minutes, both fire engines were reversed into the garage and the doors closed. The rear car park was now deserted, patterned with a mosaic of weak light from the windows above.
Bryce, dressed head to toe in black, strode stealthily over to the cigarette, picked it up in his gloved fingers, then carefully placed it in a small plastic bag and slipped it into his pocket. Then, looking around
and up, he took the few steps over to Matt Wainwright’s Nissan and within a matter of seconds had popped the driver’s door open.
Wainwright had been pissing him off for the past three years. Eating his lunch. Fancying himself. Getting gigs he had been after. And which he would have been much better at.
Not any more, dude!
He slipped inside the car, and closed the door.
49
Tuesday, 29 October
‘Good morning, old timer. Got a few minutes?’ Glenn Branson said, breezing into Roy Grace’s office at a quarter to eight on Tuesday. Then he hesitated, noticing the mug of coffee, the opened can of Coke, and the blister pack of paracetamol, with most of them popped open. Roy Grace’s tie was at half mast, his normally healthy complexion was pallid and his eyes had the telltale bloodshot look that came from lack of sleep or a hangover.
Or, in Grace’s case right now, both.
‘You look like shit!’
‘Thanks,’ Grace said, unsmiling.
‘Seriously, I mean it. Did you have your stag night early and forget to tell me?’
‘Very funny.’ He stared at the DI. Glenn was wearing one of his regular sharp suits, this one a shiny brown, with a tie that could have been seen from Mars. For someone who had lost his wife less than three months ago, even though they were separated, he seemed to have been remarkably cheery these past few weeks. But now he had his kids, his house – and his life – back.
Outside the window, with its view across the ASDA supermarket car park and loading bay, and south over Brighton towards the sea, the sky was a tombstone grey and rain was falling heavily. ‘Remember Cassian Pewe?’ Grace quizzed him.
‘Lovely Cassian Pewe,’ he replied. ‘The golden-haired Met officer, with his rasping, nasally voice. He was seconded here last year and managed to upset just about everyone in this building and in Sussex CID. Yeah, remember him well, unfortunately. Mr Two Face.’